


Eye of the Storm

by theinkwell33



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Calypso allegory, Curse Breaking, Cursed Martin Blackwood, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Jon wears Martin's sweaters, Loneliness, M/M, Martin's invisibility powers, Memory Loss, Mythology References, Siren Jon, Sirens, Tea, The Beholding Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), The Lonely Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), boatbuilding, musings on the meaning of humanity, shout out to the family of crabs serving as jon's tape recorders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28273056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinkwell33/pseuds/theinkwell33
Summary: Martin Blackwood's gone and gotten himself cursed. On his isolated island, he builds boats, makes tea, and tries not to fall in love with the poor souls who wash up on his beach. He falls for them all anyway, and then they leave.Enter Jon, a prickly siren full of stories and the latest victim to end up on Martin's island. Jon could swim away anytime he likes. The trouble is, he can't seem to leave.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 114
Kudos: 278





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is essentially a Calypso AU with sirens. It just...sang to me so I figured, why not?
> 
> Hope you enjoy! This fic has very little in the way of horror content, but does contain reference spoilers through season 4.
> 
> I don't plan for this to be super long, probably 5-6 chapters max. I have most of it written, just need to flesh out the ending. I'll post another chapter here in a bit!

According to the day’s forecast, Captain Lukas expects smooth sailing. The sky is an overcast steel gray, but that’s expected this far north. No rain is expected, and the waves lap gently against the hull of HMS _Tundra_.

But the calm won’t last. Jon knows it won’t.

He’s lurking just off port-side, submerged underwater and listening intently. He knows the crew’s guard is down. They’re not expecting a fight. And because Jon’s very good at what he does, they won’t have time to raise any weapons before they’re under his spell.

From his position, he hears the ship slicing cleanly through the water, approaching until it’s well within Jon’s range.

The promise of a feast is too good to resist, and Jon is so hungry. There might have been a time, years ago, where he would’ve hesitated. But he’s less human than he was back then, and the thought of what he’s about to do doesn’t startle him as much. This is what he is. He needs this.

When the ship is just close enough that they could probably spot Jon if they were looking, he seizes his chance.

He rises from the water until he’s floating level with the deck. He gazes at the ship with deep intensity and the air thrums with the power of his compulsion. Any birds soaring overhead would see a livid green outline of an eye opening from the depths, encompassing the ship in its all-seeing iris.

There are four people on deck, but he knows that his influence will reach even those hidden below. He has their attention, and he doesn’t need to see his reflection in the glassy water to know his eyes are glowing. He is otherworldly. Tempting. He calls out to them.

**_Tell me your story._ **

Sirens, Jon knows, have a reputation for destruction. Most people also presume all sirens sing.

Most people are wrong.

Jon doesn’t need to lure sailors in with dulcet harmonies. He doesn’t devour them and then leave the ship’s carcass adrift on the sea. He instead compels the crew to tell him their deepest fears, their secrets, their thoughts. He drinks his fill of stories. Then he moves on.

He doesn’t like to dwell too much on the lingering effects the sailors have from the experience. It makes him feel a foreign emotion that his human self might’ve called guilt. So instead, he tells himself there's no harm done. He has not killed anyone.

It’s more sustainable to feed on stories, Elias told him back at the very beginning. When Jon was New.

“Songs can end. The right stories are infinite, Jon. Remember that.”

And Jon believed him, for a while.

But he has yet to come across a story that truly sates him in the infinite way Elias described. Does it even exist? This is an incessant question that bounces around like a second heartbeat in his ribcage, but it goes unanswered. 

He killed Elias long ago, and there isn’t really anyone else he can ask. He isn’t welcome in the human world anymore, and he spends most of his time in the cool ocean depths. What he does these days is just survive. It’s not that he likes being a siren, he just can’t be anything else. If there was another way, he’d take it.

Probably.

Perhaps the sea, in its vast, inscrutable caprice, knows this. Perhaps this is why today takes a strange turn for Jon.

Once he’s extracted statements from the entire crew of the ship and leaves them to sleep off the trance, he makes his way out to the open ocean. He swims to where the water is an icy dark blue, and the bottom is so far below that even Jon wouldn’t dare try to reach it. He can breathe underwater, but he wouldn’t withstand the cold. Jon’s always been all bones, and a siren’s diet doesn’t do him any favors.

He makes it to his underwater lair, a sunken ship perched atop an underwater cliff. It has an overlook into the abyss below, and a lovely school of fish have made a home in the captain’s chambers.

Jon lives in what was once the library, though he has dubbed it The Archive. The books have long since disintegrated, but the leather-bound covers remain as empty shells. Jon pretends to fill them with the stories he’s gleaned from the sailors. He likes to revisit them, even if they grow stale over time and don’t sustain him the way fresh ones do. He knew how to read once, he’s sure. But reading underwater isn’t a feasible pastime, and so he recites the stories aloud instead. A cluster of crabs seems to enjoy listening; they gather together and click and whir at him as he talks.

But today, before Jon can unpack the knowledge he’s gleaned, the water around him darkens. There must be a storm brewing above, but he’s never known one to stir up so quickly. Curious, he swims upward, using his webbed hands and feet to propel him to the surface. As his head breaches the water, he’s immediately greeted with a sharp, stinging wind. The clouds above have turned swirly and black, and a fork of lightning stabs downward in the distance. The water is whitecapped and violent.

It’s clear that Jon should make for his library, where he’ll be safe from most of the damage. He might have to put the crabs in one of the galley crates to keep them from drifting away in the agitated water, but he doesn’t expect a lot of damage.

Unfortunately, before he can dive below the surface, a huge gust of wind nudges him into a whorling current he hadn’t noticed, and he’s sucked into the spinning vortex. His lungs and gills alternately struggle to give him enough oxygen in the rapid shifts between salty air and frothed waves, with the end result being that he just ends up feeling lightheaded. He spins and gasps, unable to escape the overwhelming current. He squeezes his eyes shut, and hopes against all hope that it’s over quickly. He doesn’t know what happens to sirens when they die, but he’s fairly sure he’s about to find out.

And then, just when Jon feels like he can’t survive another moment, everything stops. He slams into cold and unyielding sand, and after the initial shock of it, his lungs expand with a grateful gulp of air at last. He opens his eyes to see what appears to be a darkened beach, and feels small waves lapping at his feet. He tries to sit up, burying his hands into the wet sand with a squelch. His head pounds and protests, and small gray spots haze over his view of a disquietingly calm ocean. 

_Wasn’t there just a storm?_ He wonders as he lays back down in the sand. He thinks he can make out stars and the sound of footsteps approaching...at least, before he loses consciousness.

* * *

There’s someone on Martin Blackwood’s beach.

This isn’t exactly the first time, so instead of being concerned and running for help, Martin just squats down beside the stranger and rolls his eyes. “Not another one.”

In the pink light of sunrise, he takes in the newcomer with irritation. Black hair, streaked with grey in long, tangled strands. They’re starting to curl in the salty air, framing a face with high cheekbones. 

Martin does note with begrudging interest that this one doesn’t seem to be quite human. Scales spiral around the ankles and wrists, and webbing traces the fingers and toes. There’s also the matter of the pearly tunic that covers the rest of the stranger, with a shimmering green and silver embroidery. On closer inspection, it appears to be a repeating pattern of eyes. It’s a bit worse for wear and covered in sand, but overall has held up better than it probably should have.

None of the others were like this, Martin thinks. They all looked inches from death, dehydrated and sand-scraped. This one seems made from the sea itself, and unusually well-off for someone who’s been ejected from the unforgiving waves.

“Maybe it won’t be too much trouble to get you off my beach after all. With webbing like that, you can probably just swim away and leave me be,” Martin says to the prone figure. “The _ others _ all needed boats.” 

And after receiving no response, he picks up the stranger and carries him back to the cottage to rest on the spare cot. There are some minor wounds Martin can attend to, and sending the poor thing back out onto the ocean without doing so would be bad manners. Can’t have that.

After a quick patching of cuts and rinsing the sand off, Martin deposits his charge in the smaller second bedroom, with two glasses - one of fresh water, one of salt water. He’s not really sure what this one will need, and he’s never met a sea creature before. He  _ really  _ doesn’t want his first act to be to accidentally kill them by accident.

It’s midmorning before Martin hears a groan and panicked rustling noises from the cot. He abandons his woodworking in the adjoining room and enters to find his guest awake and wide eyed, tangled in the sheets enough to be suspended upside down off the bed.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Martin mutters, and immediately races to help. Once he manages to untwist all the sheets and get the visitor right-side-up, he gestures at the glasses of water.

“You’re probably thirsty-”

Without another word, the creature grabs both and downs them in succession with a grateful sigh. Martin blinks, surprised. “Do you want more?”

“Maybe later.” The voice sounds scratchy and unused. “Where am I? How did I get here? There was...a storm?”

“You’re at my cottage. You washed up on the beach this morning.”

“Who are you?”

“Martin Blackwood. This is my island. Who are you? Forgive me, but you don’t seem like you’re an...uh...a land guy.”

“No, I’m not. More of a sea guy. Um, you can call me Jon.”

“Are you going to die if we don’t get you back out to sea soon? You should probably recuperate a bit first, but I don’t know what you need.”

Jon tilts his head thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. I feel okay. Might need to take a swim later if I dry out.”

“What about food? I have some stuff here but...normally the people who wash up are humans, so-”

“Don’t worry, I just fed. I’ll be fine for a while.”

“ _ Can _ you eat human food?”

Jon just stares at him with those dark, clever eyes.

“I mean, do you  _ want _ to try to eat some?” Martin clarifies.

He just shrugs. “Haven’t had any in a very long time.”

“Well, I can make tea at least, if you want.”

There’s an odd expression on Jon’s face, like he’s straining to recall the concept of tea. “I think I liked that once,” he nods. “Okay.”

Martin puts the kettle on, his brain running through the word  _ once _ over and over. That implies Jon might’ve been human at one point. Interesting.

While the water is boiling, he fetches a spare set of clothes. He’s got things down to a routine at this point - there’s even toiletries for washing up if Jon wants.

When he reenters the room, Jon’s inspecting the bookshelves lining the opposite wall. He reaches out as if to touch their spines, but stops just short of making contact, as if he’s afraid they’ll crumble to dust.

“I brought you some, er, stuff,” Martin says, holding out the clothes and the bag of supplies. “Use whatever you’d like.”

Jon inspects them warily. “Why?”

“Well, you probably feel a little under the weather. People usually end up in a storm, and it spits them out here. Plus it can get cold this far north, you might want something warmer than that tunic. The others all wanted sweaters.”

“I’m not the first?” Jon looks surprised.

“No, of course not.” Martin doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t bother at this point, not when everyone just leaves again anyway. Nobody can help him, he knows that by now.

Jon frowns at the clothes Martin is still holding out to him. It’s getting awkward at this point.

“Are these the same clothes you lent to the others?”

Martin splutters. “I- wh- they’re clean- why-”

Jon takes them with a small nod and something that might be an amused smile. “Thank you, Martin.”

There’s a moment where they stare at each other, and Martin thinks his brain might be melting, but then he realizes the ringing in his ears is just the kettle whistling for his attention.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! We made it through 2020, so here, have some angst and fluff and pining!
> 
> Thanks for all your comments and kudos, as well. You are so wonderful and I'm honored by the response this story has received so far! I'll hopefully have another chapter out after the new year.

Martin prepares tea while Jon washes up. There’s a moment where he has to explain the faucet apparatus in the bathtub, but other than that, he gives Jon his privacy. By the time he has a pot brewed and the table set for two, Jon emerges with his hair wrapped in a tight bun. He’s wearing one of Martin’s sweaters, which is so comically large that it hangs off him at every fold. The sleeves have been rolled easily three times so that Jon’s webbed hands could be freed from the woolen confines.

Martin is inclined to find this endearing and kind of sweet, and though he wants to shove those feelings aside, it’s futile to resist. His curse has its hooks in so deep. In cruelty, it only ever sends the people it _knows_ he can’t help but love. 

But maybe he can allow himself the occasional affectionate thought. As long as he doesn’t start writing poetry about Jon he’s okay.

Over tea, Martin finds himself stressing over what questions are appropriate to ask. He fumbles through pouring cups for them both and helping Jon remember how to take his tea. After several tries, it turns out to be three sugars and no milk. Despite the failed attempts, Jon seems delighted by the beverage overall, and tells Martin this in a surprised tone. 

They then sit in silence for several minutes before Martin can come up with a phrasing of his foremost question that isn’t offensive.

“Er, Jon, uh, if you’re from the sea...” Martin begins, very aware of the attentive expression Jon is wearing, “where did you get taken from? Like, in the sea specifically. Are you um, a merperson? Do you have a um...a pack that’s looking for you or something? You don’t have to answer if this is invasive or whatever, I, um, sorry, I just need to know how to help you get back. Can you swim? Breathe underwater? Are you going to need a boat? I usually make boats to help people get off the island.”

Jon slurps his tea. Martin realizes he has gills just underneath each of his ears - they flutter every time he drinks. He’s mesmerized - he’s never seen anything like it before.

“I can swim back. A boat’s not necessary. Look, there’s...no one who’ll miss me, if that’s what you’re asking,” Jon finally says. “My kind live alone.”

Martin clears his throat. “O-oh. Yeah. I can relate to that. Uh, I do too, actually.”

Jon frowns. “Not all humans do.”

“That’s true.”

“ _Are_ you human?” he asks, and Martin pauses. He actually has to think about this. His lifespan is...unnatural, to say the least. But if he’s not human, then what? Best to just keep it simple. And not lie. He has a strange feeling that Jon would be able to tell.

“Umm, sort of.”

“Me too.”

Martin dunks a biscuit into his tea, and notices Jon’s eyes tracking the movement with curiosity. “Want one?”

Jon nods, so Martin hands him the plate. He sniffs them tentatively, then selects one and copies Martin’s movements by dunking it in his tea and then popping it in his mouth. “Oh,” he muses, “that’s quite good. I’d forgotten.”

“Yeah, they’re cinnamon.”

“I like cinnamon,” Jon declares. He dunks another biscuit but leaves it in too long, and three quarters of it breaks off and sinks in a sodden heap to the bottom of his cup. His face plummets to comical despair, and Martin has to cover his laugh with a cough.

“I guess I’ve spent too much time underwater. At least there, nothing gets soggy,” Jon jokes, clearly having seen right through Martin’s efforts to stay serious.

“Er. Speaking of. Jon, we may be mostly human but I don’t think we’re the same _kind_ of mostly human. Would you agree with that?”

Another nod. “I presume you’re not a siren like me?”

_A siren._ Martin frowns. “Um, no. Something else. And I didn’t have a choice. I get on well enough, but sometimes things get...inhumanly weird. I er. I disappear. Go invisible sometimes. When I’m alone too long. And it unsettles people, so. Hence... isolated cottage. I don’t normally share that with people, but it seems like you’d understand. The company helps, you know.”

Jon bobs his head in agreement. “I do understand. The weirdness, you know. It’s the same for me. But I don’t have a cottage. I have a sunken ship.” He pauses, looking pensive. “You said company _helps_. Does that mean - are you going to feed on me?”

Martin chokes on his tea. “What? No!” he coughs. “Of course not! I _can’t_ ...it’s not like that. My life force is tied to the island. It’s why I can’t leave. But feeding... I... rather thought it’d be the other way around. Don’t sirens, er-"

Jon interrupts. “-I could feed on you, but it’d hardly be polite after you’ve helped me recover. If you _wanted-_ ”

“No, no! I don’t. Want that, I mean,” Martin waves his hands frantically. “All I want is to help you get off this island. It’s kind of my fault you’re stuck here. I’m sure you want to go home.”

“I’m not stuck. I could overpower you easily,” says the bony creature in the massive sweater.

Martin’s voice goes a bit high here. “There’ll be no need for that!”

“Believe me, it’s not like I want to stay.”

They never do, but something in Martin’s heart still winces. “I’m not going to put up a fight, you know. I’m not going to trap you here. Don’t resort to any...um-”

Jon puts up both webbed hands in a placating gesture. “Relax, I’m not going to _hurt you_ , you’ve been kind to me.”

“But you could? If you wanted to?” Martin can’t hide the small amount of fear leaching into his tone.

“Well.” Jon sighs. “Yes.”

“How do I know you won’t? The rumors about sirens are...well, there’s the stuff about how you live in their nightmares after, or that you can make them tell you anything and they _love_ you for it until you kill them-” 

His dark eyes turn flinty and hard. “I’m not a monster. I’m not like that.”

Martin can feel himself flushing with humiliation. He can’t salvage this, can he? “Not - no, I _know_ that, I meant-”

“You know what, never mind,” Jon says quietly, and rises from his seat. He lifts the teacup carefully and carries it to the kitchen counter. “Where’s the door? I’d like to go for a swim.”

“It’s um, it’s that way,” he points, and Jon leaves without another word. The door shuts with a muted snap, but to Martin, it might as well be a slam. “Goodbye,” he murmurs, and then crumples in his chair. He presses his palms against his eyes. He won’t cry, he _won’t_.

This might be the record for the shortest stay of any visitor. It only took Martin a couple hours to chase Jon off for good. With the others, they left within a matter of days. But time doesn’t matter much with the curse. 

As soon as he falls for whoever washes up in need of his care, they leave him. That’s always how the curse works. It was of expertly cruel design, because the most painful part is what Martin can’t help but bring upon himself: he helps them get off the island. 

Martin builds small boats and sends them on their way, because it’s what they want, and he wants to make them happy. They sail away, and they never come back.

It’s a lonely existence, and the only way Martin can endure this cursed life is by forgetting. He’s best on his own, after all. He doesn’t need anyone else. He doesn’t want to remember how much it hurts for someone to leave.

Jon’s probably already left the clothes in a heap on the sand and is halfway to France by now. Martin will collect his sweater tomorrow, when he’s forgotten Jon completely and it doesn’t hurt as much. 

He wasn’t expecting Jon’s departure to happen so soon. He’d imagined that a shorter stay might be less painful in the end, but this actually feels _worse_. It makes him ask the horrible question: did the others only stay longer because they were waiting for him to finish building the boats?

Now that he’s alone again, Martin feels the familiar Fog rising up in his mind. It makes him dizzy, numb, muted. It dulls the pain, wraps him in the quiet dimness and mist. This is what he is; the loneliness is where he belongs. It soothes him, protects him from loss. 

He washes the dishes on autopilot, hardly registering what he’s doing. He tidies the cot, strips the bedding, and sweeps the sand from the floor. After a few minutes, it’s as if Jon never came here. With any luck, the Fog will eventually help him forget Jon altogether. He doesn’t remember the others’ names, what they looked like, or what they said. He remembers how he felt about them, though; the unrequited love and the vivid heartbreaks.

The sun traverses the sky, and Martin spends the day in his work shed, building the next boat. He’s partway through sanding the hull when he realizes it’s nearly dark. He muzzily puts away his tools and drapes a tarp over the skeleton of wood, then makes his way back to the cottage to cook dinner for one.

There’s an odd nudge at the back of his mind - wasn’t there another person? What was his name again…?

But it slips through his fingers like smoke and he doesn’t strain to recall anything further.

He sets a pot of water to boil and is humming to himself while chopping vegetables when his front door opens. Martin grips the knife - he knows he’s alone on this island, and he isn’t expecting anyone new to arrive for a couple days at least.

“Captain Lukas? Is that you?” It’s the only person that comes to mind, despite how unlikely it would be to receive a visit from the man who cursed Martin in the first place.

And then, suddenly, a skinny figure with dripping wet hair is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing Martin’s sweater. It takes a long moment for Martin’s brain to recognize that it’s Jon. Once it clicks, he feels deeply unsettled. How could he have ever forgotten _Jon?_

“You - you came back?” Martin stammers, thunderstruck.

Jon gives him an odd look, his stare still hard and angry. “I just went for a swim.”

“I thought you’d gone. For good.”

“Well,” Jon wrinkles his nose. The water dripping from his hair is now pooling on the wood floor. He seems more alert now, more...hydrated. His eyes seem to have a green shimmer to them in the orange overhead light. “I tried. But I’m afraid I am a bit stuck after all.”

Martin blinks. “You tried to leave and you _couldn’t_?”

“I swam pretty far out, and I probably could have kept going, but I just... kept getting this feeling I should come back, so I did.”

“That’s new.”

“Yes, it’s a frustrating development. I’ll try not to be too, ah, _monstrous_ around you while I try to figure this out. Keep the _murders_ to a minimum.”

“I don’t think you’re a monster, Jon.”

He gives Martin a look of flat disbelief. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying. But I think if you’re going to be here for longer, we should probably try to understand each other better. All I know about sirens are the tales from the humans. They’re just stories.”

Jon’s bony shoulders settle a bit. “I suppose.”

“I’m making soup, do you want any?”

Jon inches closer to peer into the pot, where Martin’s already added potatoes and leeks. Standing this close, Martin can smell the brine of the sea on Jon’s skin, and there are grains of sand bordering his left temple at his hairline. It’d be so easy to reach out and brush them away. 

He forces himself to take a step back. 

If Jon notices he’s flushed, he doesn’t say anything. “I might try a bit,” is all he says. “Er. Yes. Thank you, Martin.” 

“You’d better dry off properly while I set up, then. You’re dripping all over the place. There’s towels and fresh clothes in that drawer there.”

Jon nods silently and fetches what he needs, then enters the room with the cot to change. Martin braces his hands against the counter, processing this. Has he been freed from the curse if Jon can’t leave?

But no, he forgot all about Jon when he’d left to swim earlier. And Martin can feel he’s still tied to this island, trapped like a spider under a glass. 

Perhaps Jon will need a boat to get out after all. 

Martin's built so many boats at this point; it’s second nature. It should take him record time, if he was motivated. But he’s already grown so attached to Jon; he almost lost him once already and forgot everything so quickly. If it happens again, he wonders if the distress would finally be enough to make Martin disappear for good. That can happen, sometimes, with the Fog. After a while, you disappear and you _stay_ gone.

_Maybe it won’t be so bad to send Jon away in a boat_ , he tells himself, because he has to. _You’ve lost the others and gotten over them before. Jon’s no different. It'll be fine._

He shouldn't try to get his hopes up, but underneath this bleak mantra, there is still the tiniest spark of hope that maybe Jon could save him.

Because if Jon came back once, maybe he could do it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon: I just...kept getting this feeling I should come back, so I did
> 
> Is it the curse? Is it love? More at 10!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I sailed for a while,” Martin admits. “I know all the legends of the sea. The others used to say there are seven seas and twice that many fears.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is sponsored by sea shanties. Sea shanties - for all your yearning needs!

While he waits for dinner to cook, Martin decides to delve for answers.

He pulls his stack of five well-worn letters from the hidden drawer in the china cabinet. It seems silly to read them again, as they won’t have changed and he already has them memorized. But maybe there’s some clue about what’s happening with Jon. Captain Lukas never told him about what would happen if someone felt like they  _ couldn’t _ leave. They  _ always  _ left.

He’s not really all that surprised to find nothing stands out in the correspondence. There’s nothing mentioned about any flaws in the curse. They’re really just worn and folded papers full of lies and traps. All are penned by Lukas to Martin, chronicling their first meeting, Martin’s ill-advised acceptance of a job, a request to meet up with the mysterious E.B., a letter demanding Martin explain himself, and the final one, the curse itself: a single page which, to anyone but Martin, appears blank.

He glares at all the signatures from the letters, rueing the day he ever crossed paths with Peter Lukas. He doesn’t know why he thought looking at them again would help.

“Martin?”

He jumps violently at the sound of the voice, shoving the letters behind his back as if that’ll conceal anything. “Jon!”

“What are-” he starts to ask, then clears his throat. “It looks like you were reading something.”

“Nothing. It’s - nothing.”

Jon flicks his eyebrows up into a skeptical expression but drops the subject. He’s wearing another of Martin’s black wool patterned sweaters and a pair of gray trousers. He’s even put on a pair of wool socks and swept his hair back up in a messy knot on top of his head. The sand at his temple is gone. 

Jon frowns, clearly trying to find a better conversation topic. “Anyway. I, um, I didn’t realize you knew Captain Lukas.” 

Martin doesn’t have the heart to tell him this topic is worse. “How did-”

“You said his name when I came in, earlier,” Jon shrugs. “It rings a bell. Peter Lukas, right?”

Now that’s interesting. Feeling himself perk up a bit with hope, Martin stuffs the letters back in the cabinet. He can’t help but feel Jon’s intense eyes on him even though his back is turned. When he faces Jon again, he answers, “He’s...an old acquaintance. You know him too?” 

This is one of the few times when Martin isn’t trying to be secretive on purpose. The problem with getting himself cursed by Peter Lukas is that he physically can’t talk about the fact that he’s been cursed at all. Martin’s tongue tied within an inch of his life and Jon will never know.

Except, from the look on the siren’s face, Jon  _ does _ know  _ something _ . “I’ve crossed paths with him. Recently. His memories are full of you; I’d hardly call him an acquaintance. It seems you were…” he squints into the middle distance as if reading something invisible over Martin’s shoulder. “Enemies? It’s hard to tell, there’s a lot of information tangled together. Did you know he served the Fog?”

Martin almost laughs. “I. Yes. I know.” Then, horror creeps in as he notes the past tense.  _ Served. _ “Hang on, did you, er... _ eat _ him?”

Jon uncomfortably adjusts the oversized sweater. “Define  _ eat _ .”

“Anything. I don’t know what eating  _ is  _ for you. Do you physically eat people? Or just make them afraid and feed on that?”

Martin expects Jon to be offended, given their monster conversation earlier, but he’s actually giving it a clinical amount of thought. Maybe his diet doesn’t include murder as a prerequisite, which is vastly different from the tales Martin had always been told.

“No, I feed on their stories,” Jon explains. “Everything that Captain Lukas has seen, done, said, and thought...I have consumed. He told me all of it and I left him and his ship adrift at the mercy of the storms. Soon after, I washed up here.”

“So you know everything about what happened between Lukas and me?”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise. “It’s more that I  _ could _ know it? It’s hard to explain. It’s like having his entire life in a book on my shelf. I could read the whole thing, or turn to a certain page if I knew what I was looking for. It’s here. I'll dream about it occasionally. But I can't immediately know everything all at once. It'd be like pouring the ocean into my head.”

“Oh,” Martin says.

“Did you want me to know? You could just tell me yourself. I don’t want to invade your privacy. I seem to remember humans not enjoying that much.”

In this case, Martin would very much like him to know everything.  _ Please. You have to find out about the curse because I can’t tell you myself _ . 

He doesn’t say that, of course. The words his curse makes him say are, “Best to leave it alone.” He clenches his fists, unable to make his expression match the nonchalant response.

Jon notices the tension, it’s obvious he does. But he instead points to the stove. “I think the soup’s boiling over.”

“Agh!” Martin lunges for the burner dial, and any further discussion about Lukas sinks into oblivion.

* * *

Over dinner, Martin accepts that every conversation he’s had with Jon so far has gone to ruin. So, he might as well get another awful topic out of the way.

“So, Jon. It’s probably not a surprise to you that this island has some funny things about it. Inhumanly weird things. Namely, um, that people like you get trapped in a storm and end up here.”

“Yes,” he clears his throat. “I noticed.”

Martin nods. “Right. So. Usually when that happens, I have to construct a boat for them so they can get home. I think that’s why you couldn’t swim home earlier. Maybe the boat’s the only way out.”

“I  _ could  _ swim away,” Jon clarifies, “I just...got this feeling I shouldn’t. It was my choice to come back.” 

“The island can be subtle. It manipulates people into thinking their will is their own,” Martin rationalizes. He doesn’t know if that’s actually true, but he can’t entertain that Jon came back by his own free will, that kind of hope is too much for him right now.

There’s a clatter as Jon irritably drops his spoon into his bowl. “I know when I’m being controlled,” he says sharply. “This wasn’t like that.” Something about his tone feels jagged; there’s terror in every word. 

It makes Martin want to ask  _ What happened to you? Who made you afraid? _ But that’s far too invasive, so he just nods instead. “Okay. We’ll call it a mystery. But I think you should still try a boat.”

Jon looks up, his expression calmer but still wary. “You said you build them?”

“Yeah,” Martin scratches the back of his neck. “I...already started making yours. Should take maybe a couple weeks to fully finish and test it. Can’t have you sink halfway out.”

“I won’t drown,” Jon says, amused.

He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. I want to do it right.”

“Genuine question, why do you have to build a new boat every time? Don’t you ever reuse them? It seems like a lot of work.”

Martin and his curse internally wrestle for an answer he’s allowed to give. He can’t tell Jon he’s unable to leave the island. “I, I - well, I can’t row everyone home and back, that’d be an awful lot of trips. Plus, once people leave, they never come back. They take the boats with them, so there’s nothing to reuse.”

“They never come back? Not even to visit?” The look Jon gives him is somehow both incredulous and soft, as if he can’t imagine anyone abandoning Martin. His indignance is so gratifying, it’s almost easy to forget that Jon’s going to do exactly the same thing in a couple weeks.

“No,” Martin sighs.

“Why didn’t anyone stay?”

This is getting dangerously close to a question Martin can’t answer  _ at all _ . He can practically feel the Fog breathing down his neck. “I don’t know,” he lies.

“That sounds terribly lonely.”

He nods.

There’s a pause, and then Jon blurts out, “With the others, did you ever refuse to make them a boat? So they would stay with you?”

Martin’s face must show how horrified he is, because Jon raises his webbed hands in a placating gesture. “Just curious.”

He sighs again. “No. I’m sure I could have refused. But I wanted them to be happy. To get their lives back. Keeping them here against their will...I suppose it would make me some sort of monster.”

“No monsters under this roof.” Jon cracks a smile. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, and his cheeks flush pink.

* * *

They are in the middle of doing dishes when Jon brings it up again. 

Martin is acutely aware of how close they’re standing in the small kitchen. He’s up to his elbows in soapy water, passing the clean dishes to Jon to dry. It’s weird how well practiced Jon seems with this routine. Maybe sirens do dishes too. Or maybe Jon had a human life once, where he did dishes and had friends and drank tea. But Martin doesn’t get to dwell on this too much, because Jon pops the soap bubble silence.

“I don’t think I could do it either, you know. If I were you. If it makes you feel any better.”

“You mean keep someone against their will?”

“Yes, Martin.”

“Oh.”

“But. Look, you wanted to know about sirens earlier, right?”

“Yes, if you can tell me.”

“Then, there’s something you should know. Er. To begin, I suppose I should explain that we serve the Eye of Storms the way Lukas served the Fog. The Eye values knowledge and stories, enjoys unraveling the mysteries of the depths. Sirens feed on that information, usually getting it from humans daring to brave the ocean, and our harvest serves the Eye. The Eye sustains us in return.”

“I sailed for a while,” Martin admits. “I know all the legends of the sea. The others used to say there are seven seas and twice that many fears.”

“There’s actually fifteen fears, but yes,” Jon interjects.

“Oh, good,” Martin says sarcastically, and he gets a grin in response.

“Anyway. It’s said that the Eye blesses those who crave knowledge, and that’s how they become sirens. It’s not nearly that pleasant, and calling it a blessing vastly oversells it, to be honest. But it does bring certain...gifts. Sirens can make people tell us their secrets, or do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do, if we want. It’s called Compulsion. And when you have that kind of advantage, sometimes it makes sirens become possessive monsters. But not all of us are like that. I’m not. Or, I try not to be.”

Martin blinks at the revelation, and his hand stalls half-way through scrubbing a plate. “Oh. I didn’t - I didn’t realize you could compel people.”

“I haven’t done it to you, if you’re wondering. I wouldn’t, unless it meant saving your life or something. And I’d never use it to make you do anything you didn’t want to. Remember, I owe you a debt.”

“Oh. Um. Thanks.” Martin puts all his sincerity into the words. “What  _ do  _ you use it for, then?”

“I use it to feed on sailors. To hear their stories. That’s all. I mean, I have to eat somehow. But I’ve had Compulsion used on me, I know it’s unpleasant, so I only use it when I have to. Guilt isn’t exactly something I feel anymore; it’s more like I know I  _ should _ feel guilty if I abuse that power, and that’s enough.”

“Is there anything it doesn’t work on? Or anyone?” Martin tries to not make it sound like a leading question.

Jon hums and stacks some dry bowls at the edge of the counter. “We can’t Compel true love. The sirens from the tales you’ve heard of use it for seduction, but that’s a small subset of our kind. That type of spell is just a temporary illusion, anyway. I’ve never been inclined to use it. Seduction isn’t really my thing.”

Martin bites back the retort that Jon’s managing to bewitch him perfectly well without special powers. What he says instead is a quiet agreement. “Compelled love isn’t really love.”

After all, that’s how Martin knows that his feelings for the visitors to his island are real - the curse couldn’t force him to fall in love; it just sends people who are categorically his type, and Martin’s brain does the rest. At least his emotions and his  _ dumb brain _ are things he can reliably trust.

“Exactly. I’d rather any kind of love happen naturally if it happens at all. Although, it’s unlikely anyone would fall in love with me.” Jon laughs, and his gills flutter a little. “Sirens don’t pair off with each other and I rarely meet anyone I don’t feed on. That leaves a very small pool, and I'd probably outlive them anyway.”

He swallows hard.  _ Oh. _ He emits a strangled laugh that comes out rather high. “D-don’t rule it out, you never know.”

Jon only makes a muffled  _ hmph  _ noise. “It’s a nice thought. But it’s not a priority.”

"Oh." Martin goes back to the dishes with new focus. “Right.”

* * *

That evening, Jon ventures out to the beach again to plunge his feet into the waves. He is trying not to dry out too much, because otherwise he gets crabby and itchy. Thankfully, the water also prevents him from metabolizing his last feed too quickly. He shouldn’t need another statement for a few weeks at this rate. Which is a good thing, because feeding off Martin is no longer an option. They’ve built a hesitant trust there, and he refuses to undermine it.

The sand is still a little warm under his feet, but it’s quickly cooling as the sun sets. There’s something very comforting about standing on something solid and firm. Jon hasn’t spent this long on land in decades, and he didn’t realize how much he missed it. The ocean has its advantages, and it welcomes him with quenching coolness and constant rhythm, but he’d forgotten what it was like to stand instead of float. Or eat a proper meal, or hold a mug of hot tea. Or even just talk to anyone who wasn’t a curious crab or a terrified victim.

He’s finding that the more time he spends at this little cottage with Martin, the more he remembers about how nice it was when he was on land. In his human days - before Elias, before everything went wrong. 

How simple life is when things are quiet and there is good company. How lovely to pull on a giant, warm sweater that smells like bergamot and wood smoke.

Land also has  _ books _ . With dry, crisp paper pages, not the waterlogged, pulpy ruins he’d been hoarding in his Archive! He’s certain he’ll be rusty at reading after so long, but his fingers still itch to pry open the spines lining the room where Martin set up his cot. 

Maybe he’ll ask Martin to read to him, once the most recent bout of statements from the crew of the  _ Tundra  _ wears off and he’s Hungry again. Sometimes a book is a good enough substitute for a siren’s meal - a vegetarian option. A story is a story, after all. But being read to is hard to come by when you live in an undersea shipwreck with soggy, ruined books. Even if that wasn't an issue, the family of crabs in the Archive are his only company, and they aren’t great with vowel sounds.

Jon then muses on the  _ Tundra _ statements until the sun’s completely set and the wet sand is like ice against his scales. He thinks about Captain Lukas, and draws up a memory of the crew singing a shanty together. He finds himself humming the tune and staring out at the midnight-blue water.

To his surprise, inside the cottage he can hear Martin idly start to hum the same melody. 

Now that’s interesting. It’s clear Martin learned it from Lukas, but Jon doesn’t understand how the two knew each other. Martin had said to leave it alone, but the way he’d looked when he said it was almost as if he’d wanted to say literally  _ anything _ else. Jon knows compulsion when he sees it. There is a story here that someone doesn’t want Martin to tell.

For the first time, Jon wonders if Martin might be cursed. He knows better than to ask, of course; what he’d learned from his time with Elias was that people can’t talk about their own curses.

Luckily, Jon has the statement of Captain Lukas safely stowed in his mind, he just needed to flip to the right page. Now that he knows what to look for, he might be able to get to the bottom of what's going on with his new friend.

“All right,” he says to the Eye that he knows sleeps beneath the sea. “I know you put me here for a reason, and if saving him from a curse is that reason, I’m going to do what I can. But not for you. I’m doing it for Martin, because he’s taken care of me and I owe him that. After everything I’ve been through at your hands, **you will give me this.** **Are we clear?** ”

The waves beat steadily against his ankles, and in the whispering language of froth and sand and salt, Jon Hears and Knows his answer. He can feel that his eyes are glowing a burning, vibrant green, and he takes a moment to let it fade before he turns around. It won’t do to have Martin glimpse the inhuman gleam from the window.

“Okay,” he says, and he heads back to the cottage, full of new purpose. “Time to get started.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domesticity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for keeping you all waiting! The main reason for that was because this chapter got LONG. Like 5k long, so I split it up and moved some of it to chapter 5. Ideally, the next update won't have such a long wait! 
> 
> Enjoy the fluff while it lasts! Next chapter is the main conflict so it'll be a little angsty.
> 
> Also, this fic now has some gorgeous art made by @fricklefracklefloof on tumblr - you can see it [here!](https://fricklefracklefloof.tumblr.com/post/640907810523299840/found-this-cute-little-jonmartin-fic-where-jon-is)  
> 

Jon spends the rest of the evening on his cot, staring at the wooden beams holding up the cottage. He picks at the statements in his mind, searching for pertinent memories from the crew. But there’s a lot of information, and it’s a bit like trying to find one specific fish in the entire ocean. He’ll get there eventually, but the answers about Martin’s curse won’t come that easy, it seems.

Giving up, he lets the searching green glow radiating from his irises fade, and curls up into a small ball on the cot, burrowing under Martin’s spare wool blankets.

There isn’t such a thing as warmth under the sea. Not really. The water was just water - a pressure, a ripple, a presence. The closest thing to warmth Jon had encountered was when he spent a few weeks floating around some of the volcanic vents. But that was back when he was New and still chased the feeling of heat. 

New sirens eventually stop needing it as they shift away from human biology, so Jon drifted further north once he was accustomed to the chill of the water and his scales had fully come in. He doesn’t like to go too deep, and he does still get cold. But he doesn’t ache for warmth the way he used to.

Being under blankets is a foreign experience to him now. He enjoys it, absolutely, but he isn’t human anymore, and there isn’t as much warmth radiating from him for the wool to trap. Nevertheless, he revels in the scent of Martin’s tea that seems to pervade through the fabric. It’s soft and of a substantial weight, and if Jon pretends, he can almost imagine he’s underwater in his Archive, tucked into the barnacled chest he’d used as a den -

He jerks awake hours later to pale sunlight streaming through the salt-encrusted windows. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep so quickly, but thinking back, he’d been rather comfortable. Martin has good blankets.

He feels itchy and dry, so he drinks the glass of water he left on the nightstand and sighs in relief as the tightness in his skin and gills relaxes. Suitably refreshed, he ventures out into the hallway, noting that Martin’s room is vacant with the bed neatly made. 

The living room’s empty too, as is the kitchen. There is a plate of baked  _ somethings _ on the grey counter, and Jon sniffs at them curiously. He can’t place the tart, sweet aroma. He probably knew what it was, once, but he’s afraid to taste one. Plus, these might not even be for him. Does Martin make offerings to something? Maybe one of the Fears?

Distress coils in his chest. He’s been apart from land culture for too long. He should know what to do, but here he is, awkwardly standing in the kitchen having a staredown with some kind of soft bread. This is humiliating.

He breaks eye contact with the platter and decides making tea for Martin might be a better first step. There’s a kettle and a mug, and Jon remembers how to do most of the setup - thankfully stove mechanics haven’t changed much in the last few decades. He is, however, at a loss of how much tea to put in, so he makes an uneducated guess. 

When the kettle screeches, Jon accidentally finds himself harmonizing with the sound, then stops, blushing furiously. Sirens don’t sing, but they have been known to hum in private. It’d be mortifying if Martin came to find him doing it, though.

Jon pours water atop the leaves and squints at it. It’s probably good enough. He’s surprised Martin hasn’t come to find him yet, so he decides to take the tea to him, wherever he might be.

This might require a cold journey outdoors if the cottage is empty, so he lifts Martin’s discarded sweater from yesterday from where it was cast across a kitchen chair. He also takes a small saucer plate and caps it over the top of the mug to prevent the tea from spilling.

He searches for a good quarter-hour, although half of that time was spent remembering he should wear shoes, then having to find a pair of Martin’s that didn’t slide off his feet immediately. He manages to knot some of the laces into a tangled abomination that’ll at least keep them on, and scuffs his way out onto the sandy path leading away from the cottage.

Martin’s not on the beach, or at the small dock. Jon checks the fenced grassy area, where a few cows and chickens roam happily. Jon stays far away. Animals don’t react well to sirens, and he doesn’t fancy being chased by anything with feathers.

Eventually, he comes to a dreary grey shed beyond the chicken coop where he catches a plume of something sandy brown float out of the open door.

As he gets closer, he can smell the sawdust. This must be where Martin’s building his boat.

There are some accompanying loud tool noises too, but Jon knows nothing about boatmaking, so he can only guess as to what Martin’s doing with them.

Jon pokes his head around the open door, and is met with a surprise. The gloomy shed is completely devoid of people. A saw is bisecting a piece of wood on its own, moving as if by magic. The atmosphere is thick and particulates dance in the air.

“Uhhh, Martin?” he tries.

If anyone’s actually in the shed, they don’t respond. The saw continues impassively. Unsure of what to do, Jon stares at the cooling mug of tea in his webbed hands and shifts from foot to foot.

Finally, the saw stops moving and Jon hears a small huff. He looks up as a bit of wood clatters to the floor and the piece on the cutting table levitates into the air as if it’s being inspected.

“Martin? Are you in here?” Jon tries again, now that his words might carry.

“Agh! Jon!” Martin’s voice squeaks, and the wood clatters to the table. “Sorry! Sorry, you startled me,” he says. “Come in. Here, put these on.”

A pair of safety glasses floats toward Jon as he approaches. He glances around, holding out the tea with the saucer on top. “Um, where are you? I brought you tea. Also your saw was um, cutting? On its own, not sure if that’s safe-”

Martin swears, and it takes Jon by surprise. “Oh, for-” the disembodied voice mutters. “Sorry, no, that was me. I’m here,” the glasses wave again, “I guess I went invisible again.”

Jon walks in the vague direction of where Martin must be and reaches with one hand for the safety glasses. They make an awkward trade, and the mug is gently lifted from Jon’s hands. He marvels as it soars up to what he assumes is Martin’s taller height. The saucer floats off and deposits itself on the work table among some wood shavings.

“Thanks for the tea,” Martin says awkwardly. It raises a bit more as if he’s sipping it. “It’s...really nice of you. None of the others did that. I’m...honored you’d think of me.”

Jon pushes the glasses up his nose and clears his throat. “It’s the least I can do. Um. How long have you been out here?”

“Few hours. This is good. Tea. Good tea. Question though, did you...did you strain the leaves out?”

“Of the tea?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. No, was I supposed to?”

“Um, well, I do. It’s less uh, leafy? But this is still delicious. Feels nice to hold something warm. Thanks, Jon.”

“Right,” he frowns, making a mental note for next time. “What do you remove the leaves with?”

“You know,” there’s a pause, “it’s probably time for me to take a break.” A pair of glasses materializes on the table, as if Martin’s just taken off his own pair. “Here, I’ll show you.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.” Jon places his glasses on the workbench and follows the floating mug out of the shed.

When they’re back in the kitchen, Martin offers Jon a lemon scone.  _ Scones! _ That’s what they were called. So they  _ were _ for him and Martin. He flushes a bit at this and tries to mask it by becoming very interested in the tea infuser Martin shows him.

It turns out, tea brewed Martin’s way is vastly better, and Jon isn’t even offended. Being taught to make tea properly is a lot more fun than struggling on his own. 

They enjoy a proper cup of Earl Grey with a scone each, and Jon tries not to stare as he watches an invisible man eat. It’s so disconcerting, he almost can’t help it.

“I can’t turn it off, I’m sorry,” Martin sighs, as if reading his mind.

“The invisibility?”

“Yeah. Sort of a long story. I’ll come back eventually, but I don’t exactly have control over it.”

“How often does it happen?”

Martin shuffles in his seat. “Not sure. When I’m alone, I don’t always know if I’m visible or not. It’s only when there are people staying with me that I get any idea how frequent it happens. Best I can tell, maybe a couple of hours every day? It’s been getting worse over time, though.”

“That sounds an awful lot like the Fog. Did Peter-”

“What do you want for dinner tonight?” Martin changes the subject so abruptly that Jon sloshes some tea onto the table in surprise.

“Uhh-”

“There isn’t much to choose from, I’m afraid. But I’ve got some rice, and beans. Some potatoes. I can bake bread. Carrots are in season right now; got lots of those. And fish, lots of fish, obviously. Do you eat fish?”

Jon huffs. “Occasionally.”

“Raw?”

“It’s not like I can cook it  _ underwater _ .”

“Hm.”

Curious, Jon asks, “Do you grow your own food too? I noticed you had animals, figured this might be a farm.”

“Yeah, I grow what I can. Food on the island is a bit scarce; one of the boats delivers food every month or so but it’s a grab bag as to what’s inside. Once, the only thing in it was canned peaches. Had to eat that for a whole month. I’ll never be able to stomach them again.”

“That sounds awful.”

“It’s okay. I’ve gotten good at rationing out the better things, and I do have a small garden in the back just in case they stop sending food. Usually I’m good at coming up with meals.”

In his waterlogged, distant human memories, Jon remembers making spicy things. Pickling vegetables. And brewing spiced drinks with segmented oranges and cloves. Apple cider, perhaps?

“I think I liked cooking,” he says. “It seems like you enjoy it too.”

“It’s something to do,” Martin sighs. A cloud passes over the sun, and the kitchen dims to a gray half-light. Jon thinks he can almost see tendrils of fog wrapped like a blanket around a grey figure, but then there’s the sound of a chair scooting back and he loses track of where Martin is again.

“It’s going to rain.” The voice sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen window. “I’d better go put some tarps over the wood. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.”

While Martin’s gone, Jon clears their dishes and washes them. He’s just laying them to dry when he hears footsteps and the door closing.

“I’m back, Jon. Didn’t want to sneak up and scare you,” the voice calls. 

“In the kitchen,” he responds, struck with the sudden domesticity of it. It’s …nice.

“You did the dishes?” Martin asks, his voice closer now but somehow softer. “Thanks. Thank you.”

“Again, least I could do.”

Rain starts to patter down outside, first in a sprinkle and then a near torrent.

“Guess I’m not going to make much progress on the boat this afternoon.”

“Is the shed-”

“It leaks,” Martin laughs. “I’ve tried fixing the roof a dozen times, but for some reason I haven’t been able to get it right. See, I’m good with woodworking, but I’m afraid of heights. When I get up there, I can’t focus enough to repair it properly. So, it still leaks. That’s what the tarps are for. I don’t want the wood to rot.”

There’s a slow rumble of distant thunder. Jon’s bones hum at the vibrations like a tuning fork. He tries not to  _ actually  _ hum. That would be embarrassing.

“Ah. Well, what are you going to do instead, then?”

“Dunno, really.”

“What would you do if you were by yourself?” Jon asks.

“Knit, probably. Or read. I write poetry sometimes, but it’s not any good.”

There’s a swooping sensation in Jon’s chest. “If. Um. If you read, would you let me read with you? I wouldn’t want to intrude, it’s just been so long since I’ve-”

“Oh! Oh, sure. Um. Do you want to read the same book? Or your own? Actually, here, come to the library with me, we can pick something.”

Jon follows the sound of Martin moving to the room where his cot is set up. There are so many books on the shelves, he has no idea how he’ll choose one. He soaks up the scent of petrichor from the rain outside and the distinct smell of a library. The essence of stories isn’t enough to feed the Eye, of course, but it smells as good to him as a well made meal might to a human.

Martin pulls down three or four novels, and the books float in midair where he is likely holding them against his chest. “I’ve got a couple favorites here you might like. We can see if any of these appeal to you.”

Jon follows the floating books back to the living room. The couch cushion on the far side sinks slightly as Martin sits, and Jon tentatively chooses the seat beside him, reaching out with one hand to make sure he doesn’t bump into Martin.

“I’m still invisible?” he asks, and at Jon’s affirmative answer, he blows out a breath. “This is a long one. I’m sorry.”

“Are you...okay?” Jon asks. He’s not really sure what he means by it, but it feels like the right thing to say.

The books in his lap shuffle as Martin flips through them. “I will be, I think. Reading makes me feel better.”

“Me too. It’s a bit like… snacking for us. For sirens, I mean. We enjoy it when we get the chance.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I mean, we don’t get to do it a lot. There’s a good chance I’ll have forgotten how to read some of the words if it’s been too long, but it’s not hard to get the proficiency back over time if we try.”

“If it’s nourishing to you, why do sirens forget how to read?”

“It’s not our main form of feeding. I could live off written words, sure. But it’s not as satisfying, and the Eye prefers live statements. Plus, becoming a siren is never really something that you  _ stop _ doing once you start. We just progressively get less human as time goes on, and reading is a human thing.”

“So,” Martin says slowly, “you’re saying that if you stayed in the ocean too long you’d go full, er, fish? Totally give over to the Eye?”

“Without an anchor? Yes. Late-stage sirens are what everyone tells stories about. Vicious tempters, carnivorous, mermaids, or even sea monsters.”

“An anchor?”

“Something that ties us to the human world. It’s - I’m pretty old for a siren. Most sirens my age don’t make it this long without some side effects from the Eye. I’m no exception.”

“Still. You seem like you have an anchor.”

“Not exactly.”

“You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to,” Martin reminds him.

Georgie’s face flashes through Jon’s mind. He remembers losing control, compelling Melanie in front of her. The bitter shame on his tongue despite how sated it made him feel. That was the last time he saw her. 

He wishes he could have explained back then that he was terrified of what he was becoming, and that Elias was no help. That he didn’t want to be a monster, but it seemed he didn’t get much of a choice. Instead, he’d jumped off the nearest pier into the sea and never returned. His hands were webbed within a year and he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He deserved to be marked for what he’d done. 

He’s regretted it every day since. The guilt has lessened over time, but he’s retained enough of a moral code that thinking of Georgie still bothers him, at least.

“I did have an anchor once,” he eventually says. “But that was a long time ago, and it eventually became unsafe for me to be around anyone, so I severed the bond. I haven’t had one in decades. You can probably tell,” Jon laughs wryly, holding up his webbed hands. “There are days when I barely remember I was human once.”

“I - I know what you mean,” Martin says quietly. The rain outside is more intense now, and a flash of lightning momentarily illuminates the darkening room. It passes right through where Martin sits. “When I’m invisible, it feels like I don’t exist. Like I’m not a person.”

“Are you a ghost?”

“What? No!” The indignance is almost refreshing after hearing the hollowness in his voice all morning. “I’m not dead, Jon. That’s dumb.”

“I had to ask. You do exist, Martin. I wouldn’t be able to sit here with you and talk to you otherwise.”

“I just wish-” his voice cuts off with a choke, as if he was trying to say something and was physically prevented from finishing the sentence. Jon notes this silently, and it only adds to his curse theory. An emotion bubbles to life in his blood that feels the way he always thought external warmth felt. His insides feel hot. Is he - he thinks this is  _ anger _ . He’s angry that Martin’s been put in this position. It’s cruel.

In an attempt to comfort, Jon reaches out a tentative hand, aiming for Martin’s knee. He misses, and accidentally grabs what feels like an exposed wrist. Where their skin touches, color and shape bleed back into existence like mist dissipating. Jon stares as the area he’s touching comes back into full existence - Martin’s wrist, a section of his forearm, and the cuff of a grey sweater. 

The rest of Martin is still invisible, but where presence and dissolution meet is a warbling watercolor effect. It’s strangely beautiful.

Martin lets out a small gasp and Jon lets go in surprise. He watches as invisibility creeps back up Martin’s skin until he’s entirely gone again.

“Has that ever happened before?”

“No,” Martin whispers.

“Can I do that again?”

“Yes.”

Jon grips his wrist again, then follows the outline until he can take Martin’s hand and interlace their fingers. Nearly half his arm bleeds back into visibility. 

“Whoa,” he hears Martin say faintly.

“Quite.”

* * *

They pass the afternoon with Martin reading aloud from a book about a man trapped in a cave with a cyclops. Jon tucks his scaled feet under him and leans against Martin’s shoulder, so that about half of his left side is visible. Jon tries to follow along with the words on the page. Occasionally a paragraph will be indecipherable to him; glyphs instead of recognizable words. Nevertheless, the story is delicious.

At the end of a chapter, Martin gets up for a glass of water. Jon, who hasn’t moved in a long time, realizes how dry and stiff he is, and goes outside to stand in the rain for a few minutes. Feeling revived, he dries his hair with a towel while Martin pulls out his knitting. Jon watches, entranced, as a sweater knits itself, each thread coiled and strung into a beautiful golden pattern.

“Where do you get the wool?” he asks eventually, while Martin’s counting stitches.

“I have some sheep. They’re a bit shy, they tend to make themselves scarce when I’ve got visitors. But yeah, I shear them and spin the yarn myself; I’ve got a wheel in the shed. Sometimes they deliver dyes with the food.”

Jon reaches out to touch the in-progress pattern. “It’s so soft.”

“I made all the sweaters here. The one you’re wearing too, you thief.”

“I’m not a thief,” Jon protested, his fingers following the ridges of yarn in the bottom row. “I don’t have any clothes of my own. Besides, you weren’t wearing it, and you left it on the chair. It was fair game.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Eventually Martin puts aside the knitting, claiming his fingers ache. Eager to avoid uncomfortable silence, Jon has an idea. “You should take a break. Let me show you something instead.”

Martin acquiesces, sounding baffled.

Jon grabs Martin’s glass of water from the table, and sits on the wood floor with the glass in front of him.

The sound of Martin joining him on the ground follows, consisting of a series of fabric rustles and a quiet sigh. “What are you doing?”

“Well, being a siren isn’t all bad. It comes with some interesting bits,” Jon explains. He wraps his hands around the glass and closes his eyes. He thinks about the downpour of rain outside, and the rustle of wind-battered leaves, and the roar of the hungry ocean. He feels the pound of the surf like a heartbeat in his chest and makes the connection.

He opens his eyes again, self-conscious about revealing their green glow to Martin. But today he’s seen Martin at a pretty low point, and it’s time to reciprocate his vulnerability.

With his Sight, he’s startled to find that Martin’s outline is illuminated before him in shimmering beads of green light, like water droplets collecting on driftwood.

“Oh,” he says softly. “I see you.”

“You can see me? Am I- Am I back?”

“No, I’m afraid not, I think it’s because I’m viewing you through the lens of my patron. All the fears are connected; they recognize each other. One of them is clinging to you. If I could just-”

“Never mind  _ that _ ,” Martin waves it away. “Your eyes are - they’re glowing!”

“That’s not what I wanted to show you. At least, not all of it.” Jon looks down at the glass of water, and intones:

**You who know the tales dead men cannot tell, you who revel in the secrets of the deep, you who find solace at the center of chaos - drink in all that is Known and all that is Told; it is yours.**

The water in the glass begins to rise up into the air, funneling like a cyclone until it floats between Jon and Martin. It forms the shape of an eye, sparkling prismatically against the green shine in the room. Then it disperses into miniscule droplets, and reshapes into a ridged circlet that revolves above Jon’s head.

“That’s the Watcher’s Crown,” Jon explains. “It’s a ritual sirens perform, usually after we eat. Since I read today, I had something to give to the Eye, so. Yeah. I’ve never done it in front of anyone before, but I think we’re both in situations that require us to have a little vulnerability. I thought you might enjoy seeing what it’s like.”

“That - that was,” Martin stutters, his mouth opening and closing several times before he is able to continue. “That was amazing.”

Something in Jon’s stomach flutters with relief - he didn’t want to admit he’d been somewhat worried Martin would be afraid. He probably  _ should  _ be afraid. But Jon will take this as a win. He glances up at the crown and waves a hand. The water elegantly spirals back into the glass, and Jon drinks it. His gills ripple contentedly.

He then ends his connection, and the outline of Martin vanishes.

“Jon, that was incredible. I had no idea you could do that.”

“Came at a price, I’m afraid. But the ocean isn’t all good and all bad. Sometimes it’s-”

“Beautiful,” Martin says quietly.

Jon reaches out a hand, feeling for where he thinks Martin might be. Martin had apparently been reaching back, because their hands connect. With a small crackling noise like an electric shock, the invisibility chooses that moment to dissipate in full, leaving a flushed Martin staring at him with light blue-grey eyes.

“Oh!” Jon jumps. “You’re back. For real this time.” He finds himself inexplicably disarmed.

Martin laughs. “Finally!”

It takes a few more minutes of conversation for either of them to notice they’re still holding hands. Even then, they only let go when it’s time to cook dinner and they physically can’t stay linked.

“Not sure what could’ve gotten rid of it,” Martin shakes his head as he fills a pot with water. “Maybe your ritual helped or something. If there’s a Fear hanging around me, like you say.”

“It doesn’t really work like that, I don’t think,” Jon muses, inspecting a potato like it’s some kind of new life form. “But I do get the strangest feeling that the Eye is fond of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, because I am extra, I made a list of all the ocean versions of the fears!  
> The Horizon = Vast  
> The Abyss = Dark  
> The Eye of Storms = Eye  
> The Scuttle = Extinction  
> The Fog = Lonely  
> The Net = Web  
> The Haunt = Stranger  
> The Lost = Spiral  
> The Mutiny = Slaughter  
> The Frenzy = The Hunt  
> The Scurvy = Corruption  
> The Drowned = Buried  
> The Powderkeg = Desolation  
> The End = End  
> The Chum = Flesh


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's a nice anchor you've got there. Would be a shame if something were to...happen to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angst has arrived! I have padded it with sheep and cute crab shenanigans though, so hopefully it all balances out. One more chapter to go, friends! See you back here soon for the end.

In his time on the island, Martin has rarely been as happy as he is those following weeks with Jon. 

He spends his mornings in the shed constructing and sanding while Jon helps position finished parts of the boat. They chat and laugh, telling jokes and drawing patterns in the sawdust. Eventually the structure takes shape with jutting, curved beams that resemble ribs on a skeleton.

Their afternoons are mainly dedicated to companionship. On nice days, they walk the beach, collecting unusual shells and admiring the crabs that follow Jon like ducklings.

“I don’t understand. They shouldn’t be doing that,” Jon protests the first time it happens. He is clearly embarrassed. “They should be afraid of me. Sirens are supposed to send predator signals.”

“I think the crabs just don’t care. They seem really taken with you,” Martin had said, nudging Jon’s bony shoulder with his own.

It isn’t just the crabs, though. Jon unexpectedly wins over the sheep, who venture out on precisely one occasion to circle him curiously, then bolt back to the meadow. One stays behind in a fit of hoof-fidgeting bravery, utters a defiant “BAAAAA” and then runs to join the others.

Jon looks back over the long grass at Martin, and it’s too late: Martin’s caught with his hands on his knees, scarcely able to breathe from laughing. 

“Oh, don’t  _ start _ ,” sighs Jon with fond exasperation.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. “It’s just, they think you’re competition. They like you, but they’re worried you’ll usurp all my attention.”  _ As if you haven’t already _ .

“Never knew sheep could be petty,” is all Jon says on the matter. There’s a moment where his mirthful eyes skitter up to meet Martin’s, and there’s a plummeting moment of something deeper, but it passes when Martin forces himself to turn away and lead the way back up to the cottage. He’s trying not to get attached, even though it’s already too late.

On the colder days, or when it rains, Martin spends the time teaching Jon how to knit, and they speed through stacks of books in the library. In fact, these last few days, Jon’s only twice found himself faced with a passage of unreadable glyphs instead of words.

“It’s helping, it’s really helping,” he assures Martin in a delighted voice after they finish a chapter of some old cartography journal left over from Martin’s days on the  _ Tundra _ . “Maybe I’m not as far gone as I thought.”

For the first week or so, Martin had been the one to read aloud, with Jon curled up at his side in a curiously affectionate gesture that sparked absolutely zero complaints from him. But these days, an additional domestic pattern has developed: Jon reads to Martin while he cooks.

Typically, this involves Martin at the stove, sautéing vegetables while Jon sits cross-legged on the counter like a misbehaving cat. He reads stories in a voice that's so melodious and vivid that it lifts away the foggy island and places Martin in the written world like a spectator.

To Martin’s secret joy, Jon does all the voices too. He’s a good mimic, although perhaps that shouldn’t be surprising for a siren. If Martin didn’t have something to do in the kitchen, he’s fairly sure that voice could lull him into security very quickly. Perhaps it has already. But he finds he doesn’t mind all that much. 

He’s going to miss Jon’s voice when he’s gone. And his curiosity, and his genuine excitement over scones and oranges and seashells and books.

He’s going to miss Jon, full stop.

The boat marks the passage of time. At last, the final days of working on it have arrived. Martin tries not to dwell too long on assembly and caulking. He knows he has numbered days with Jon, and it’s so tempting to stretch them out as long as possible. But that wouldn’t be fair to Jon, who must be aching to return to where he belongs.

That being said. In those quiet, happy hours spent reading, cooking in the kitchen, or walking in the sand, there have been times when Martin’s  _ wondered _ .

He thinks about how well Jon seems to fit tucked against his shoulder when they sit on the couch. He thinks about knitting Jon a sweater that actually fits him and doesn’t hang off his skinny frame. He thinks about making the cottage  _ theirs _ and not just his.

_ Would you remain here with me? What we have... is it enough to convince you to stay? _

It would be unfair to ask Jon this, though. It’s a pretty big ultimatum to pitch when Martin’s literally the only person who can finish this boat and set him free. It could come across as entrapment. 

It’s better if he says nothing, because then there’s only his own heartbreak to deal with. Jon doesn’t deserve to get caught up in a whole bunch of secret curse drama. He’s better off without a guy who is invisible about fifty percent of the time and recites poetry to his sheep. Martin can handle being alone. He will be  _ fine _ .

Too soon, the day comes when the boat is ready for testing. 

That morning, while Jon’s inside immersed in a book, Martin hauls out the wheeled contraption he uses to transport the boats to the small wooden dock. He wants to test it alone; he knows even this will make him sad and he doesn’t want Jon to see the look on his face if the boat emerges leak-free and buoyant. If Martin’s done his job well, Jon could leave as soon as tomorrow.

The sky is a slate grey, with thick, low-hanging clouds and a wind churning up half-hearted whitecaps on the sea. Martin gently slides the boat into the water, ties the rope to the wooden post, and sets his watch for two and a half hours. At that point, if there are any leaks, he’ll know.

So he pulls out his thermos and takes a sip as he sits on the dock to wait. He grimaces at the taste - he never liked oolong, but boat testing day is never one he likes to waste the good stuff on. May as well get all the disappointment in one go.

Sure enough, the boat doesn’t sink.

* * *

While Martin is out finishing up the boat, Jon reads an entire book cover-to-cover with no unreadable hiccups. He grins and performs his usual ritual, musing over the tragic ending as he dedicates the story to the Eye. It had something to do with the parting of two friends, and it affected him rather strongly. Logically, he knows it’s because he’s going to miss Martin once he leaves. But the actual impression the book left on him feels a bit more tangled and painful than logic should be. 

Perspective is a tricky thing for Sirens. As they mature, it’s harder for them to view things as humans do, through emotion, love, empathy. For them, things are more clinical, logical, and solely for knowledge’s sake. Not that this is a bad thing or a good thing. All it means is that Jon is actually terrible at recognizing his own emotions. He was bad at it as a human, and he’s even worse now.

For Jon, it’s so much easier to recognize tragedy in the lives of those around him than it is to apply it to himself. Perhaps what has happened to him and Martin could, through an emotional lens, be called tragedy. 

But his awareness is limited to how he perceives this. And to him, it isn’t tragic. It...just  _ is _ . That’s how the world is built. Emotion has nothing to do with it.

All of this is to say: when it occurs to Jon that when Martin finishes the boat, he’ll have to leave, his first thought is that he can’t leave yet. When he struggles to articulate why, all his brain supplies to him is that he hasn’t figured out the curse.

That’s a very good reason, sure, but it doesn’t feel like it captures everything. There’s still a melancholic urgency. Something that puts pressure on the inside of his chest and throat.

Of course, Jon’s not  _ totally  _ lacking in self-awareness. He knows there’s  _ something _ emotional there, but chances are he won’t figure out what it is, and what to do about it, until it’s too late.

For all the progress Jon’s made in the past few weeks living more like a human, he still only approaches this problem with blunt Siren Logic: every problem can be solved by getting more information. Ergo, Jon must find out everything he can about the curse to fix whatever’s wrong with what he’s feeling, and fix all Martin’s problems.

But before he spends the dark hours of the night diving back into the haystack of Lukas’ statement looking for the golden needle, perhaps there are some answers in the cottage itself.

Martin would probably protect anything related to the curse and keep it hidden. He thinks back to that day early on, when Martin had shoved some letters into the cabinet in the kitchen. That seems...promising. With so few days remaining on the island, Jon decides that now is the best time to search, while Martin’s distracted and he has the cottage to himself.

So he opens the china cabinet gently and rifles through the drawers until he finds what he’s looking for - a small stack of letters, with a return address to one P. Lukas.

He doesn’t bother reading them in detail. He can use the Lukas statement in his mind for that. What he needs right now is to look at the letters from the viewpoint of the Eye.

He lets the connection flood through him, and sure enough, his vision is speckled with the same green droplets that covered Martin when he was invisible. The final letter in the stack glimmers with a lurid, sickly green - it’s so intense that Jon is certain without a doubt that this is the curse. 

Unfortunately, he Knows with absolute certainty it’s blank. Not white ink, not coded. Blank.

Perhaps only Martin can read it, or perhaps it’s the kind of enchantment even the Eye would be blind to. Shrouded in fog and strange mystery to prevent exactly the kind of curse-curing scrutiny Jon could provide. He’s in the perfect place to solve everything, and he  _ can’t see it _ .

Jon drops his connection and places the letters back in the drawer. When he’s certain the cabinet’s as he left it, he stands at the kitchen counter and gazes out the window with unfocused eyes. If Martin is the only one who knew the full extent of the curse and can never discuss it, the chances of Jon being able to cure him are significantly lower. It’d be nearly impossible to break through whatever Fog enchantments Peter wrapped it with - it’s as if he didn’t want the Eye to know. As if he didn’t want a Siren to see it. It feels  _ personal _ .

Elias and Peter knew each other, Jon remembers, so maybe that’s part of it. Perhaps the curse was protected from Elias? But this last envelope has a delivery stamp from several weeks  _ after  _ Jon killed Elias. So that can’t be it. 

Jon has never interacted with Peter, so this concealment couldn’t have been targeted at Jon specifically. Perhaps another siren had decided to surface and start a fight with the old captain? It’d be in-character for Gerry to do something like that, but Jon was there to see Gerry pass into ashes, so it can’t be him. Plus, the last Jon had heard, the rest of the sirens moved further north to chase bigger shipping vessels. None of them frequent Lukas’ sailing ground anymore.

That leaves the theory that Peter concealed this curse from the Eye itself, but  _ why _ ?

There are too many pieces that don’t connect, and Jon can feel his frustration mounting. The Eye is in a similar place, apparently, because the pressure in his mind where the Eye provided him with Knowledge throbs painfully. The Eye is sulking, and the gloom carries over into Jon’s demeanor.

He has a hard time shaking off his mood, but if Martin senses anything’s amiss when he comes in that afternoon, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he makes an announcement that sounds cheerful, though there is a strange edge to it.

“Good news!” he says, and gives Jon a smile that doesn’t reach his stormcloud eyes. “The boat’s ready. I tested it today and there were no leaks. All I need to do is let it dry, put a few finishing touches on the outside, and you’re good to go.”

“I - ah, thank you,” Jon ducks his head. Somehow, he isn’t elated, but he tries his best to show it. “I really appreciate your hospitality while I’ve been here. I’ll, er, be out of your hair in no time, shall I?”

“There’s no rush,” Martin says, putting his hands up in a gentle  _ stay _ motion, but then he seems to think better of it and puts them behind his back. “I mean, unless you  _ want _ to, but I’m not going to like,  _ make  _ you leave until you’re ready.”

_ I’m not ready _ .

The thought comes to mind so abruptly that for a moment, Jon has the oddest feeling someone whispered it in his ear.

Regardless of where it came from, it’s true. He doesn’t want to go. 

But what he says, because he shouldn’t admit what he knows about the curse, is “I’ll get my things together to leave tomorrow, then. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“That would be impossible,” Martin smiles softly. The pressure on Jon’s chest increases to an aching thunder, and he idly wonders what’s wrong with him. 

Before Jon can perform any kind of medical introspection, though, Martin straightens as if remembering something. “Oh! I forgot. I have your tunic. I washed it and forgot to give it back. You’ll probably be wanting that.”

He rushes off and returns a moment later with the silky, eye-patterned garment. Jon had completely forgotten about it, but he’s actually grateful to see it returned. “Thank you. It’s called a  _ shift _ , actually. It’s what sirens wear to distinguish ourselves among the other entities of the sea. Like...like your sweaters would be to you,” he tries out the analogy, and it seems to resonate. 

Martin lights up. “Oh! Right!”

They stare at each other in what quickly becomes a perplexingly uncomfortable silence, which Martin thankfully breaks by suggesting they start cooking dinner.

Their last evening together passes in a buttery candlelit blur. It seems that both of them are loath to let the evening end, but time has never been considerate and the hours slip through their fingers anyway.

Eventually, Martin can’t keep his eyes open, and when they’ve closed the books, stowed the knitting needles, and snuffed the candles, they stand together in the dark for a moment. Jon is so close to Martin that he can feel his warmth.

“I’m going to miss you,” Martin sighs. “Will you visit? If you can?” His tone is flat, as if he’s said this to so many people already and they all disappointed him.

“Absolutely,” Jon says, and it’s hard to get the words out. It’s a promise he hopes he can keep.

They embrace amid the candle smoke, and the desperate tightness of it feels a bit like Martin is trying to commit him to memory.

* * *

Jon doesn’t sleep that night. 

Martin’s long since retreated to his room and the cottage is the silver kind of moonlit dark that only comes after midnight. Now it’s just Jon, his stories, and the distant crash of waves outside. He reconnects to the Eye of Storms and peruses the statements he’s taken from Captain Lukas. There’s  _ got  _ to be something about Martin in here. 

It’s Jon’s last night on the island - even if it might be an unreasonable amount of exertion to go through all of Lukas’ stories in one night, this is important. He needs to make it count.

His eyes flare wide and begin to glow, and the sea-green light dances across the walls. Below where Jon sits on his cot, a vivid outline of an eye opens again and Jon can See.

He delves into the earliest statements he took from the ship captain, and the scenes unfold before him as if Jon is truly there. He is present and passive as Peter Lukas rises through the ranks until he secures his own ship. Jon witnesses the many sea-faring encounters with the Entities that nearly kill him.

First is an onslaught of violence brought about by the Mutiny, followed by a plague of Scurvy. Peter manages to rescue a crewmember named Annabelle from the Net and she continues to loyally sail with him for another ten years. After that, Peter sets off on a solo circumnavigation, and that is when the Fog first snares him. 

The Fog takes the lonely, the weary, and the lost. Given Peter’s choice to sail alone, he is probably the first of the three. Perhaps he doesn’t even know the Fog has claimed him at first; many often don’t. It’s one of the subtler entities and one of the more insidious. With the Fog, it’s easy to lose yourself. It steals away bit by bit until either you disappear entirely or you embody it. 

With the Eye, at least Jon knew exactly when he’d lost everything. He prefers his fate to a slow death by oblivion.

Jon watches as Peter completes his solitary quest, returning with white hair and colorless eyes. Peter starts his own shipping company, and hires a crew of exclusively Fog-marked individuals. In a perpetual cycle, he uses them all as sacrifices to the Fog to sustain himself, and returns home alone to take on another crew and repeat the process.

Then, about midway through the memories, Lukas makes a stop at a seaside inn where none other than Martin is minding the desk. The difference in his appearance is shocking - past Martin is roughly the same age, but his eyes are a youthful golden topaz color, not the light blue Jon’s familiar with. Past Martin’s face is also flushed with a kind of healthiness that drastically contrasts his current pallor. 

His hair glows gold and brown and red in the firelight, and Jon marvels at its original color, having only seen the white-streaked dusty hue it’s become. And, most out of place, there’s even a carefree smile on Martin’s lips as he turns his attention to Lukas. It sends an unexpected jolt through Jon, and he  _ knows _ Martin’s not actually looking at him like that kind of unfettered joy, but  _ oh _ , what if he did?

**_I knew he’d be the perfect assistant right then,_ ** Peter’s statement narrates softly.  **_His mother was a year dead, and there was no one else to miss him. The Fog marked him early on thanks to his own father’s departure; it’d only be a matter of time to bring him into the fold. And there was something of the Eye about him too - not a claim, exactly, but it took an interest in him, goodness knows why. I digress. He was… special. Intrigued, I offered him a job on my crew._ **

The story continues, even though part of Jon wishes it would stop. But those are the rules: sirens are voyeurs, not saviors.

He watches Lukas pen introductory letters to Martin about the crew schedule, manifests, forecasts, and budgets. Poor, trusting Martin has no idea he was prey, a pawn. Jon can sympathize with that.

Eventually, Martin sails with the first crew of the  _ Tundra _ , the very ship Jon last plundered. As the other sailors slowly succumb to the Fog, Martin persists at Peter’s side, a suitable protégé.

**_Just as I did, he lost his fear of loneliness first, and lost his empathy last. It was a marvel - the true power of the Fog at work! He would someday be able to join my side as one of its masters._ **

“The fears are not to be mastered!” Jon argues, even though he knows Peter can’t hear him. “They are inherent and  _ we  _ are subject to  _ them _ ; this is the way of the sea.”

Eventually, Peter grants Martin a week of leave in London, with orders to attend an important meeting with a client named E.B. the following Friday evening. He doesn’t consider that Martin might not return after a week off; at this point, Martin’s just as dependent on the Fog for survival as Peter is, whether he knows it or not. So, he merely gives Martin a letter with the instructions, designating a small tavern called Grifter’s Bone. 

That Friday, Peter steps into the tavern, eager to be greeted by both his apprentice and a settled deal with their client. 

The interior of Grifter’s Bone looks strikingly familiar to Jon. He’s sure he’s been here before, and recognizes the nautical themed-murals. Wasn’t this-

Something in his Vision flickers - his emotions are threatening to get in the way of his Sight. He shoves them down to deal with later.  _ Not now! _

He follows Peter to the back room, where, instead of finding E.B. ready and waiting, Peter finds the body of a siren. And Jon immediately knows who it is. He’s looking on at his own handiwork, because the dead siren is none other than Elias. Peter’s words continue, ringing hollow against Jon’s shock.

**_I was eager to finalize the terms of our wager. Elias had a promising young apprentice named Jonathan, and expected him to fully join the Eye in the near future. To make things interesting, I bet Elias that the fledgling siren would fail, and if he did, I wanted him for my own domain._ **

**_I prepared a curse that would trap Jonathan in the Fog, and was ready to take him in its clutches should he fail to ally himself with the Eye. This curse was a beauty: trapped alone, with intermittent tastes of company you can’t help but love, and in the end, they always leave you, never to return. The Fog does the rest - anaesthetizes the pain with loneliness and forgetfulness. It keeps the love, though. Unfortunately, I could never figure out how to remove that._ **

**_Nevertheless, I put every effort into this curse. I was fully expecting to win the wager, you see. Elias had never succeeded in making a new siren before, and this time was going to be no different._ **

**_But perhaps I was overconfident, because even in death, Elias won. He got Jonathan after all, and I lost. In my haze of rage, I stormed out of the tavern to see Martin sprinting away from the place. You know what they say - the innocent don’t run. It was as good as a confession - he’d killed Elias._ **

**_I wrote to him then, demanding he explain how he was able to murder a siren as powerful as Elias Bouchard. He denied everything. Faced with distrusting my once-prized assistant, I was forced to take drastic measures. Good thing I had a perfectly good curse already crafted. A pity, really. Martin held such promise-_ **

Jon inhales sharply and wrenches himself free from his connection to the Eye. He topples off the bed in uncoordinated distress.

_ Nonononononononono- _

Out of pure reflex, he emits an inhuman shriek, then winces at himself for being too loud - he’s probably woken Martin. 

_ Martin _ , who is cursed because of  _ Jon _ . 

The green light in the room fades as the Eye closes, and Jon stays on the cold wood floor staring up at the dark ceiling. Martin doesn’t stir, or if he does, he doesn’t check on Jon.

So Jon lies there in silent, sickened agony for a few hours. Is this what guilt feels like? Has he regained enough humanity to experience the weight of his decisions? If that’s the case, perhaps now he finally has enough empathy to understand how monstrous he’s been. He killed Elias, he  _ chose _ that, and  _ chose _ the allegiance to the Eye that came after. All while Martin got the curse that was meant for him by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Absolutely monstrous. There’s no way Jon can pretend otherwise. He’s a monster, and if that’s true, he cannot stay here, can he? 

This is all his fault, and Martin might never forgive him.

Just as the smallest hints of lavender begin to tint the morning sky, he makes up his mind. He tells himself it is for the best.

He rises and folds the bedsheets on the cot carefully. He gathers his things, then goes on a hunt for a pen and a paper. He eventually retrieves supplies from a dusty desk, eternally grateful for all the reading he’s been doing. He’ll need all the humanity he possesses to write this note.

It takes a long time, and Jon’s almost bleary eyed with exhaustion. Rushing through Lukas’ statement, experiencing the return of too much emotion, and writing this much has taken nearly all his energy. Plus, he’d forgotten how difficult it is to dedicate carefully chosen words to someone that isn’t the all-seeing Eye.

But it’s worth it - he can’t leave without an explanation. 

When it’s done, he seals it, scrawls  _ Martin _ on the front, and decides to prop it up on the kitchen table, where Martin will see it when he exits his room in the morning. He fights the urge to bring his lips to it, mainly because he isn’t sure if it’s a siren instinct or a human one. 

With his final task complete, he exits through the front door. He does not look back, because he’s afraid he won’t go through with this if he does. 

Halfway down the beach, he realizes he’s still wearing one of Martin’s sweaters. The thought of removing it causes him almost physical pain, right in the place where the pressure in his chest has been building.

“I hope you don’t mind that I kept it,” Jon murmurs aloud, even though the rush of the waves robs it of any resonance. “I just would like something to remember you by. You won’t remember  _ me,  _ though, and that’s probably the kindest thing I can do for you.”

He finds the dock and the boat with relative ease, and though he’s not the strongest, he does eventually manage to get the boat into the water. It’s well made, and Jon even notices Martin’s painted a name in white paint onto the side.  _ The Anchor _ . Subtle. Even just seeing that puts an arrow through Jon’s chest.

Desperate to keep moving, he places his things in the boat and climbs in. He runs his webbed hands along the smooth sides, grips the well-sanded oar, and pushes off into the salty breeze.

The boat glides away, and only once the sun starts rising in earnest does Jon finally let himself turn to watch the island grow small behind him. 

“Goodbye, Martin,” he sighs, and drifts away.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to say hi on [tumblr!](https://splitting-infinities.tumblr.com/)  
> EDIT 1/21/21: This fic now has some gorgeous art made by @fricklefracklefloof on Tumblr - you can see it [here!](https://fricklefracklefloof.tumblr.com/post/640907810523299840/found-this-cute-little-jonmartin-fic-where-jon-is)  
> 


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